I have two children, each from different marriages. My eldest is my daughter, Beatrice, whos now sixteen. Beatrices father keeps up with child support and never misses a birthday or Christmas card. Hes married again, with two more little ones of his own, but he hasnt forgotten about his firstborn. Credit where credits duehes not one to duck out of family obligations, however complicated.
My five-year-old son, on the other hand, hasnt had it so easy. Two years ago, my second husband fell ill quite suddenly and, within three days in hospital, he was gone. Even now, it seems unreal. I keep expecting to hear the front door open and see him stroll in with that lopsided grin, making tea and wishing me a good morning. Instead, Im left in tears, clutching my mug and soggy tissues.
These past few years, Ive had much-needed support from my ex-mother-in-law, Margaret. Losing her only son was utterly devastating for her as well. We banded together, phoning, visiting, and mostly reminiscing over lukewarm cuppas about what a lovable, infuriating man he was. We managed, somehow, to get through the worst together.
At one point, we even considered moving in together for mutual support, but then Margaret changed her mind. Still, we got along famouslypractically friends, reallya blessing not everyone can claim about their in-laws.
I do recall, though, back when I was pregnant, Margaret brought up the idea of a paternity test. Shed apparently seen some chat show about a dad who found out, years down the line, that his child was someone elses. I told her straight out that I was uncomfortable with the very notion.
If a blokes doubting his own child, I said, he can be a Sunday dad and good riddance.
Margaret insisted she trusted me, and that the matter was closed. I suspected shed push for a test after all, but she never said another word.
Well, this summer took another turn. Margarets health took a nosedive, and we agreed she should move closer so I could help her. We chatted to an estate agent and started looking for a flat nearby.
Then her health took yet another sharp turn, landing her back in hospital. We needed her death certificate for the estate agent, and since she wasnt up for it, I ventured over to her old place to root around for paperwork.
Rummaging through her files, what should I find among the birth certificates and gas bills but a paternity test report. Turns out, when my son was just two months old, Margaret had gone behind my back and ordered the test herself. It confirmed, scientifically speaking, that she was indeed his gran.
To say I was fuming would be an understatement. All these years pretending she trusted me, when the whole time shed gone rogue with swabs and sample kits! I confronted her, and she apologised endlessly, blaming nerves and idiotic television. Still, the sting of betrayal doesnt wear off easily.
Now, I find myself torn. Part of me wants to stop helping Margaret, arguing shes brought her own isolation upon herself. But what sort of person leaves their child without a grandmother? However much trust has been lost, I know Ill be there for Margaret. But I cant pretend the warmth and closeness we had will ever be quite the same again.
